IHE-MOUNTAIN-TllML 
•AND  iTS -MESS 


OVER  THE  MISTY  MOUNTAINS. 
PAST  THE  WIDE  HEIGHTS  OF 
BLUE  •  EVEN  TO  THE  CRYSTAL 
FOUNTAINS  -  WHERE  ALL 
THE  DREAMS  COME  TRUE" 


'ONE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 
DAY  AND  NIGHT  REPEATED  — SO: 
•SOMETHING  HIDDEN  •  GO  AND 
FIND  IT  •  GO  AND  LOOK  BEHIND 
THE  RANGES  — SOMETHING  LOST 
BEHIND  THE  RANGES  .  LOST 
AND  WAITING  FOR  YOU  .  GO!'" 


THE  MOUNTAIN  TRAIL 
AND  ITS  MESSAGE 


"He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of 
righteousness."  —  PSALMS  23:  3. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  TRAIL 
AND  ITS  MESSAGE 


BY 

ALBERT  W.  PALMER 


THE    PILGRIM   PRESS 

BOSTON  NEW  YORK         CHICAGO 


Copyright,  1911 
BY  LTJTHER  H.  CART 


THE  •   PLIMPTON   •  F 

IW     D  -  Oj 
NORWOOD     MASS  •  0  • 


HETCH-HETCHY  VALLEY 


THE  MOUNTAIN  TRAIL 
AND  ITS  MESSAGE 

IT  has  been  my  privilege  during 
the  month  of  my  summer  vacation 
for  the  last  three  years  to  be  led 
in  paths  —  paths  which  have  been 
to  me  paths  of  righteousness,  of 
joy,  and  of  inspiration.  Out  here 
in  the  West  we  call  these  paths 
mountain  trails.  It  is  out  of  my 
experience  with  these  "paths  of 
righteousness"  that  I  seek  to  bring 
you  the  message  of  the  mountain 
trail. 

The  trail  is  not  the  grandest 
thing  in  the  mountains  —  it  is 
only  a  humble  path.  It  is  not  the 
most  beautiful  —  it  is  often  ugly 
and  scarred,  filled  with  dust  and 
stones.  But  it  is  one  of  the  abso- 
lutely necessary  things,  and  one 
[5] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

comes  into  a  peculiar  intimacy 
with  it.  There  is  a  vast  difference 
between  a  trail  and  a  road.  There 
are  usually  many  roads,  and  if  one 
loses  the  road  he  may  make  in- 
quiries and  find  another  one.  But 
if  one  loses  the  trail  he  must  find 
that  one  trail  again,  and  there  is 
no  one  of  whom  to  ask  directions. 
A  road  advertises  itself  afar  off. 
You  can  always  tell  when  you  are 
coming  to  a  road,  but  you  may 
pass  within  twenty  feet  of  a  moun- 
tain trail  and  never  dream  of  its 
presence,  so  modest  is  it  and  so 
slight.  A  road  looks  very  much 
alike  mile  after  mile,  but  every 
rod  of  a  mountain  trail  has  its 
individuality  all  its  own.  One 
usually  travels  a  road  in  a  vehicle, 
but  I  have  always  traveled  the 
mountain  trail  on  foot,  and,  travel- 
ing so,  every  rise,  every  down 
grade,  every  stretch  of  dusty  sun- 
[61 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

shine,  every  cool  shadow  becomes 
important  and  noteworthy.  And 
so,  as  day  by  day  you  surrender 
yourself  to  the  mountain  trail  and 
follow  gladly  where  it  leads,  there 
comes  a  feeling  of  peculiar  inti- 
macy and  companionship  with  it. 
My  experiences  on  the  moun- 
tain trail  have  been,  for  the  most 
part,  in  connection  with  the  annual 
outings  of  the  Sierra  Club.  Our 
outing  parties  number  from  one 
hundred  twenty  to  two  hundred 
people  and  we  spend  a  month  each 
summer  in  some  remote  and  beau- 
tiful part  of  the  Sierra  Nevada. 
All  supplies  are  carried  by  our 
hired  pack  train  of  mules  and 
horses  over  mountain  trails,  for  we 
go  into  that  region  where  the  roads 
"run  out  and  stop."  At  night  we 
sleep  in  the  open  air  in  sleeping 
bags  on  piles  of  fir  boughs  or  pine 
needles  or  even,  after  a  hard  day's 
[71 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

tramp,  gratefully  upon  the  hard 
clean  ground.  Each  person  is  lim- 
ited to  forty  pounds  of  baggage, 
which  must  include  sleeping  bag, 
extra  clothing,  and  all  personal  be- 
longings. This  forty  pounds  must 
be  packed  in  a  dunnage  bag  three 
feet  long  and  eighteen  inches  in 
diameter,  with  the  owner's  name 
blazoned  on  the  side  in  letters  two 
inches  high. 

The  cooking  is  done  by  Charlie 
Tuck,  a  Chinaman  of  the  type 
that  every  true  Californian  loves 
even  as  a  Southerner  loves  his  old 
"Uncle  'Rastus."  In  the  winter 
lie  cooks  for  a  hotel  in  San  Rafael, 
but  his  Heathen  Chinee  soul  is  not 
indifferent  to  the  call  of  the  wild, 
for  in  his  hotel  contract  he  always 
specifies  that  he  is  to  have  July 
free  to  go  with  the  Sierra  Club. 
He  has  two  Japanese  and  his 
nephew,  Toy,  as  helpers  and  he 
[81 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

rules  "the  commissary,"  as  the 
camp  kitchen  is  called,  as  su- 
premely as  ever  the  Empress 
Dowager  ruled  Peking.  It  is 
stern  and  simple  fare  he  gives  us 
—  soup  and  rice  and  canned  corn 
and  tomatoes,  fresh  meat  occa- 
sionally, trout  in  abundance,  hard- 
tack, bacon,  dried  prunes  and  figs, 
and,  on  high  days  and  holidays,  a 
white  pasty  pudding,  with  infre- 
quent raisins  scattered  through  it, 
which  the  irreverent  have  nick- 
named "  Wall-paperer's  Delight." 
Our  party  is  made  up  of  lawyers, 
doctors,  college  professors,  high 
school  teachers,  and  occasionally 
a  rancher,  business  man,  or  min- 
ister. There  are  even  more  tem- 
peraments and  points  of  view  than 
occupations.  The  mountains  seem 
to  mean  something  different  to 
each  one.  There  is  my  nephew, 
the  Fisherman  —  he  values  each 
[9] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

camp  in  terms  of  the  number  of 
trout  that  rise  to  his  fly  in  the 
adjacent  mountain  torrent.  The 
Geologist  loafs  along  the  trail, 
oblivious  to  the  very  existence  of 
trout,  breaking  rocks  with  his 
hammer,  and,  after  everyone  else 
is  in  camp,  the  Botanist  drifts 
wearily  in,  like  an  overdue  tramp 
steamer  through  the  Golden  Gate, 
with  his  press  full  of  flowers.  No 
ancient  lava  or  rainbow  trout  for 
his  herbarium,  if  you  please!  This 
man  in  the  well-tailored  khaki  suit 
has  been  planning  reservoir  sites  all 
day  and  that  other  man  in  shabby 
corduroys  and  a  broad  gray  hat 
has  been  watching  the  shadows  in 
the  canyons,  listening  to  the  music 
in  the  trees,  and  entering  into  fel- 
lowship with  the  chipmunks  that 
cheerily  share  his  lunch. 

And  then,  when  the  day's  tramp 
of   from  six  to  eighteen  miles  is 
[10] 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

over,  we  all  gather  after  supper  in 
a  great  circle  around  the  camp-fire. 
Each  member  of  the  party  con- 
tributes according  to  his  ability. 
There  are  silent  souls  that  do  their 
share  by  keeping  the  fire  a-blazing, 
there  is  a  Los  Angeles  lawyer  with 
an  improvised  limerick  for  every 
occasion  and  a  Berkeley  doctor 
with  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
stories.  The  Botanist  and  the 
Geologist  share  their  knowledge 
with  the  rest  of  us,  leaving  out  the 
big  words,  and  a  quartet,  four 
men  from  four  corners  of  the  coun- 
try, sing  some  of  the  good  old 
songs.  Last  of  all  "the  Signer," 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his 
fine  spiritual  face  illumined  by 
the  blazing  fire,  touches  his  violin 
and  pours  out  in  music  the  things 
we  all  long  to  say  and  cannot. 

Sunday  comes  and  we  gather, 
men  and  women  of  many  creeds 
[11] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

or  no  creed  at  all,  under  the  shelter 
of  some  majestic  yellow  pine  with 
the  great  cliffs  towering  above  us. 
The  old  hymns,  led  by  the  violin, 
the  simple  prayer,  the  Twenty- 
third  Psalm  repeated  together,  the 
sermon  touched  with  a  sense  of 
the  Divine  presence  all  around  us 
—  these  things  all  help  to  make  a 
summer  in  the  Sierra  more  than 
a  physical  refreshment  alone. 

And  so  by  day  we  live  in  fellow- 
ship with  the  trees,  ever  calm,  dig- 
nified, serene,  and  with  the  great 
cliffs  in  whose  presence  we  feel  so 
slight  and  so  transitory.  And  then 
at  night,  when  the  camp-fire  has 
died  away  and  a  hush  has  settled 
down  across  the  hills,  we  lie  in  our 
sleeping  bags  and,  before  we  close 
our  eyes,  look  straight  up  at  the 
innumerable  and  silent  stars,  and 
learn  anew  what  it  may  mean  to 
pray. 

[12] 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

Last  year  a  member  of  our 
Sierra  Club  wrote  a  very  beautiful 
little  poem  entitled  "The  Moun- 
tain Trail."  It  has  not  yet  been 
published  and  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  reproduce  it  in  print.  It  tells 
of  how  the  trail  winds  its  way  up 
the  mountain  side,  through  the 
flower-strewn  mountain  meadows, 
across  the  rushing  rivers,  up  the 
great  rock  slopes,  and  even  over 
the  gleaming  snow,  and  closes  with 
the  longing  that  it  may  go  on  for- 
ever. 

"Over  the  misty  mountains, 

Past  the  wide  heights  of  blue, 
Even  to  the  crystal  fountains, 
Where  all  the  dreams  come  true." 

I  do  not  wonder  thaVthe  moun- 
tain trail  should  arouse  a  poet  to 
song,  for  I  have  spent  days  on  the 
mountain  trail  which  were  in  them- 
selves like  poems  lived,  and  the 
memory  of  which  is  like  the  echo 
[13] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

of  some  great  music.  I  have 
started  out  in  the  morning  and 
climbed  a  rocky,  dusty  trail  up 
steep  zig-zags  through  the  chapar- 
ral until,  hot  and  weary,  I  have 
come  to  a  gently  sloping  plateau 
land,  where  the  trail  wound  slowly 
upward  through  fragrant  pines 
with  great  bronzed  trunks  and 
then  dipped  into  little  meadows 
green  with  spring-time  and  glad 
with  flowers.  In  the  trees  birds 
were  singing,  and  as  I  listened  I 
said  over  to  myself  those  beautiful 
lines  of  Edwin  Markham's  on  "Joy 
in  the  Morning": 

"I  hear  you,  little  bird, 
Shouting  a-swing  above  the  broken  wall. 
Shout  louder  yet;  no  song  can  tell  it  all. 
Sing  to  my  soul  in  the  deep,  still  wood; 
Tis  wonderful  beyond  the  wildest  word; 
I'd  tell  it,  too,  if  I  could." 

And  then  I  have  climbed  up 
above  the  tree  line  and,  sitting 
beside  a  bed  of  white  heather  with 

[14] 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

its  exquisite  white  and  crimson 
bells,  have  looked  across  the  jagged 
peaks  and  gleaming  snow  drifts  of 
the  summit  region.  Below,  a  blue 
little  lake  with  solemn  trees  around 
it;  yonder,  a  lake  still  frozen  over, 
with  a  snow  bank  reaching  down 
to  it  like  a  miniature  glacier;  and 
everywhere  the  beautiful  French- 
gray  granite  cliffs,  so  clean  that 
they  make  one  feel  as  if  all  sin  and 
stain  had  been  swept  from  this 
upper  world  forever.  And  then 
I  have  crossed  the  pass  and  gone 
down  the  other  side,  reached  camp, 
and  again  felt  the  joy  of  compan- 
ionship and  home. 

1.  I  find  in  the  mountain  trail 
many  parables,  but  first  of  all  a 
parable  of  the  higher  life.  The 
mountain  trail  life  involves  hard- 
ship. The  trail  is  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  wagon  roads.  No  luxu- 
rious cars  carry  one  around  its 
[15] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

curves.  No  one  leans  back  on  the 
cushions  of  an  automobile  along 
the  mountain  trail.  He  who 
would  know  the  trail  must  leave 
the  comforts  and  luxuries  of  civi- 
lization behind,  must  be  glad  to 
wear  great  heavy  hob-nailed  shoes, 
strong  simple  clothing,  must  be 
ready  to  live  laborious  days,  to  lie 
down  at  night  weary  on  the  hard 
ground,  to  eat  plain  food  and  to 
share  in  the  hard  work  of  camp  life. 
If  a  man  will  do  this  the  trail 
shall  bring  him  great  rewards  —  a 
clear  atmosphere  such  as  the  valley 
people  never  know,  the  beauty 
and  majesty  of  mountain  fastnesses 
which  the  people  in  the  luxurious 
trains  see  not,  and,  when  the  roads 
where  the  great  automobiles  speed 
along  are  lined  with  dust  and  sun- 
burned grass,  the  trail  will  lead 
him  into  little  nooks  where  the 
flowers  are  yet  in  spring  time. 
[16] 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

Is  not  this  a  parable  of  life? 

There  are  men  who  live  their 
lives  on  the  wagon  roads,  in  the 
Pullman  car,  on  the  cushions  of  an 
automobile.  They  shun  all  hard- 
ship, their  object  in  life  is  to  avoid 
all  pain,  just  to  have  a  good  time. 
And  they  have  their  reward  — 
miles  of  dusty  road,  acres  of  sun- 
burned grass. 

But  there  are  other  men  who 
live  the  life  of  the  mountain  trail, 
the  life  of  aspiration  and  endeavor. 
They  are 
"Pioneer  souls  who  blaze  their  paths 

Where  the  highways  never  ran." 

They  hear  something  calling 
them  out  of  the  unseen  even  as 
Kipling's  Explorer  heard 

"  One  everlasting  Whisper  day  and  night 

repeated  —  so: 
'  Something  hidden.    Go  and  find  it.    Go 

and  look  behind  the  Ranges  — 
Something  lost  behind  the  Ranges.  Lost 
and  waiting  for  you.    Go ! ' " 
[17] 


THE    MOUNTAIN     TRAIL 

They,  therefore,  consecrate  them- 
selves not  to  the  common  dusty 
roads  of  material  comfort  and 
pleasure,  but  to  the  quest  of  the 
ideal. 

It  means  oftentimes  a  loss  of 
comfort,  it  means  poverty  per- 
chance, it  may  mean  defeat,  as 
the  world  counts  defeat,  to  follow 
this  trail  of  the  ideal.  But  it  is 
the  men  who  have  lived  such  lives 
who  have  moved  the  world,  and 
they  have  not  been  without  their 
reward  —  beautiful  flowers  bloom 
for  them  which  the  men  on  the 
dusty  road  below  know  not  of. 

I  have  found  myself  this  sum- 
mer often  thinking  of  Jesus'  say- 
ing, "I  am  the  way."  What  a 
splendid  trail  of  the  ideal  his  life 
has  blazed  across  the  mountains 
of  this  life!  What  joy  of  the 
mountaineer  comes  to  those  who 
follow  in  that  trail! 
[181 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

2.  The  trail  also  brings  to  me  a 
parable  of  our  indebtedness  to  the 
past.  No  man  can  walk  mfle 
after  mile  over  a  mountain  trail 
without  a  feeling  of  gratitude 
toward  the  men  who  made  it. 
Resting  beside  the  trail  one  day 
I  found  myself  thinking  of  the 
Indians  who  first  found  the  pass; 
of  the  rough  pioneer  soldiers  under 
Kit  Carson  or  some  other  fearless 
leader  who  may  have  been  the 
first  white  men  over  the  route;  of 
the  cattle  men  who  made  it  easier 
and  plainer;  of  John  Muir  in  his 
rugged  youth,  traveling  alone  with 
his  flour  and  his  tea,  and  without 
blankets  that  he  might  cany  more 
food  and  thus  be  able  to  penetrate 
farther  into  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Sierra  and  bring  back  to  the 
people  word  of  the  wonders  and 
beauties  he  had  seen.  I  thought 
also  of  the  foresters  who  had  re- 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

built  the  trail  and  of  the  troopers 
who  guarded  it.  Into  a  sense  of 
grateful  fellowship  with  all  these 
men  one  enters  as  he  lives  day  by 
day  in  companionship  with  the 
mountain  trail  —  this  long  slender 
thread  which,  stretching  back  over 
the  hills,  seems  to  be  the  only 
thing  connecting  him  with  civili- 
zation and,  leading  on  into  the 
unknown,  promises  new  joy  and 
beauty  for  the  days  to  come. 

And  with  this  gratitude  goes  a 
duty  —  the  duty  not  in  any  way 
to  injure  the  trail,  but,  as  far  as 
possible,  so  to  place  a  stone  here 
or  remove  one  there  as  to  improve 
the  trail  and  make  it  plainer  and 
easier.  In  high  altitudes  the  trail 
goes  over  the  bare  granite,  where 
there  is  no  way  of  marking  its 
location  except  by  low  piles  of 
stones,  called  "ducks,"  placed  at 
frequent  intervals.  It  is  an  un- 
[20] 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

written  law  of  the  mountains  never 
to  destroy  a  "duck,"  but,  rather, 
to  add  another  stone. 

What  a  parable  it  is  of  our  her- 
itage of  human  institutions  and 
ideas!  These  customs  and  insti- 
tutions are  the  trails  across  the 
mountains  of  time  builded  by  the 
men  who  went  before  us.  The 
family,  the  state,  the  Church,  law, 
religion,  standards  of  honor  and 
conduct  —  they  are  all  great  trails 
to  find  and  mark  which  our  ances- 
tors ever  since  before  the  dawn  of 
history  have  labored. 

How  wise  the  man  who  treats 
these  things  in  the  spirit  in  which 
the  mountaineer  treats  the  trail! 

The  true  mountaineer  does  not 
start  off  cross  country  regardless 
of  trails.  He  knows  difficulties 
and  dangers  will  confront  him  if 
he  does.  It  may  seem  strange 
that  the  trail  goes  down  here  or 
[21] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

up  there,  but  he  stays  by  it  be- 
cause he  knows  that  the  men  who 
built  the  trail  must  have  had  rea- 
sons for  their  course.  And  so  he 
follows  the  trail  and  sees  that  it  is 
in  no  way  injured  or  obscured. 
More  than  that,  he  improves  the 
trail.  He  realizes  that  no  trail  is 
perfect.  He  puts  a  log  across  a 
bad  stream  crossing,  and  if  a  tree 
has  fallen  across  the  trail  he  chops 
a  way  through  it  or  around  it. 
He  may  even,  with  better  survey- 
ing instruments  and  with  dynamite 
to  blast  the  rocks,  find  and  build 
a  shorter  and  better  grade.  But 
through  it  all  the  old  trail  is  the 
basis  on  which  he  works,  and  he 
never  forgets  or  despises  the  men 
who  made  it. 

Happy   the   man   who   follows 

this  parable  in  regard  to  human 

ideas  and  institutions;   who  seeks 

not  to  destroy  but  to  fulfil;  who, 

[221 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

when  he  seeks  to  reform  the  social 
order,  realizes  the  heroic  service 
that  was  given  to  bring  to  pass 
even  the  imperfect  freedom  and 
justice  we  have  today;  who, 
when  he  criticises  the  Church, 
appreciates  also  the  work  it  has 
done  and  is  doing  for  the  world; 
who,  when  he  reaches  a  sweeter 
and  simpler  creed,  remembers  that 
the  creeds  of  the  past,  however 
rough  and  crude  and  harsh,  were 
yet  trails  over  which  men  traveled 
on  to  fellowship  with  God. 

3.  Again  there  comes  to  me  a 
message  from  the  companionship 
of  the  trail.  No  man  passes  any 
other  upon  the  trail  without  speak- 
ing to  him.  Strangers  will  stop 
and  exchange  information  about 
good  camping  places.  The  stand- 
ards of  value  and  judgment  are 
different  from  those  on  the  great 
roads  below.  Men  are  not  valued 
[23] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

according  to  their  wealth  at  home. 
No  one  cares  who  your  father  was 
or  what  club  you  belong  to. 
Neither  is  judgment  based  on  out- 
ward appearances.  The  man  with 
the  shiniest  shoes  or  newest  f  angled 
kind  of  knapsack  is  not  the  man 
most  honored  on  the  trail. 

The  trail  has  different  standards. 
It  honors  and  respects  and  yields 
obedience  to  character  and  the 
capacity  and  willingness  to  do. 
The  man  who  does  his  share  of  the 
work  without  grumbling,  the  man 
who  does  the  cooking  (though  he 
be  a  man  with  eyes  aslant  and  a 
cue  hidden  under  his  old  hat),  the 
man  who  contributes  his  talents 
to  the  common  good  modestly  and 
cheerfully,  whether  his  particular 
talent  be  catching  trout,  telling 
a  good  story,  running  the  pack 
train,  frying  hot  cakes,  or  playing 
a  violin  in  the  light  of  the  camp- 
[24] 


HETCH-HETCHY 
VALLEY 


LITTLE  KERN 
LAKE 


HEAD  OF  TUOLUMNE  CANYON 


MT.  FLORENCE 
TUOLUMNE  MEADOWS  AND  FAIRVIEW  DOME 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

fire  so  that  the  cliffs  echo  back 
such  music  as  they  never  heard 
before  —  whatever  the  talent  may 
be,  there  is  the  man  who  is  honored 
and  respected  on  the  trail. 

And  if  but  one  humble  and  ob- 
scure man  on  a  mountain  trail  be 
lost,  every  other  man  on  the  trail 
feels  in  duty  bound  to  aid  in  the 
search  till  the  lost  is  found.  One 
night  two  of  our  party  failed  to 
come  into  camp.  As  searchers 
started  out  on  horseback  how 
gladly  we  contributed  little  arti- 
cles which  might  be  of  service! 
How  anxiously  we  waited  until  an 
hour  later  two  shots  far  down  the 
canyon  told  us  that  both  the  lost 
ones  had  been  found! 

What  a  magnificent  thing  if  we 
could  bring  this  companionship 
and  these  standards  down  into 
the  city  street! 

How  fine  to  keep  up  that  feeling 
[25] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

of  brotherhood  which,  in  the  spirit 
of  Walt  Whitman,  silently  at  least, 
salutes  every  man  we  meet!  How 
fine  to  keep  on  judging  people,  not 
by  their  clothes  or  their  wealth 
or  social  standing,  but  by  charac- 
ter! How  fine  if  we  could  awaken 
in  the  great  roaring  city,  with  its 
saloons,  its  brothels,  its  gambling 
dens,  that  mountain  responsibility 
for  seeking  and  finding  those  who 
go  astray! 

4.  There  is  a  fourth  lesson  of 
the  trail.  It  is  one  which  John 
Muir  taught  me.  There  are  al- 
ways some  people  in  the  moun- 
tains who  are  known  as  "hikers." 
They  rush  over  the  trail  at  high 
speed  and  take  great  delight  in 
being  the  first  to  reach  camp  and 
in  covering  the  greatest  number 
of  miles  in  the  least  possible  time. 
They  measure  the  trail  in  terms 
of  speed  and  distance. 
[261 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

One  day  as  I  was  resting  in  the 
shade  Mr.  Muir  overtook  me  on 
the  trail  and  began  to  chat  in  that 
friendly  way  in  which  he  delights 
to  talk  with  everyone  he  meets. 
I  said  to  him:  "Mr.  Muir,  some- 
one told  me  you  did  not  approve 
of  the  word  'hike,'  is  that  so?" 
His  blue  eyes  flashed,  and  with  his 
Scotch  accent  he  replied:  "I  don't 
like  either  the  word  or  the  thing. 
People  ought  to  saunter  in  the 
mountains  —  not '  hike ! '  Do  you 
know  the  origin  of  that  word 
saunter?  It's  a  beautiful  word. 
Away  back  in  the  middle  ages 
people  used  to  go  on  pilgrimages 
to  the  Holy  Land,  and  when 
people  in  the  villages  through 
which  they  passed  asked  where 
they  were  going  they  would  reply, 
'A  la  sainte  terre,'  'To  the  Holy 
Land/  And  so  they  became 
known  as  sainte-terre-ers  or  saun- 
[27] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

terers.  Now  these  mountains  are 
our  Holy  Land,  and  we  ought  to 
saunter  through  them  reverently, 
not  'hike'  through  them."  And 
John  Muir  lived  up  to  his  doctrine. 
He  was  usually  the  last  man  to 
reach  camp.  He  never  hurried. 
He  stopped  to  get  acquainted  with 
individual  trees  along  the  way, 
he  would  hail  people  passing  by 
and  make  them  get  down  on  hands 
and  knees  if  necessary  to  examine 
some  tiny  seedling  or  to  see  the 
beauty  of  some  little  bed  of  almost 
microscopic  flowers.  Usually  he 
appeared  at  camp  with  some  new 
flowers  in  his  hat  and  a  little 
piece  of  fir  bough  in  his  button- 
hole. 

Now,  whether  the  derivation  of 
saunter  just  given  is  scientific  or 
fanciful,  is  there  not  in  it  another 
parable?  There  are  people  who 
"hike"  through  life.  They  meas- 
[28] 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

ure  life  in  terms  of  money  and 
amusement;  they  rush  along  the 
trail  of  life  feverishly  seeking  to 
make  a  dollar  or  gratify  an  appe- 
tite. How  much  better  to  "saun- 
ter" along  this  trail  of  life,  to 
measure  it  in  terms  of  beauty  and 
love  and  friendship!  How  much 
finer  to  take  time  to  know  and 
understand  the  men  and  women 
along  the  way,  to  stop  a  while  and 
let  the  beauty  of  the  sunset  pos- 
sess the  soul,  to  listen  to  what  the 
trees  are  saying  and  the  songs  of 
the  birds,  and  to  gather  the  fra- 
grant little  flowers  that  bloom  all 
along  the  trail  of  life  for  those  who 
have  eyes  to  see! 

You  can't  do  these  things  if  you 
rush  through  life  in  a  big  red  auto- 
mobile at  high  speed;  you  can't 
know  these  things  if  you  "hike" 
along  the  trail  in  a  speed  compe- 
tition. These  are  the  peculiar  re- 
[29] 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL 

wards  of  the  man  who  has  learned 
the  secret  of  the  saunterer! 

5.  There  is  one  last  parable 
which  the  mountain  trail  brings 
to  me  —  its  endlessness.  It  climbs 
to  the  crest  of  the  ridge  and  is  lost 
to  sight,  but  it  goes  down  the  other 
side.  It  loses  itself  in  the  green 
depths  of  the  canyons  below,  but 
far  away  on  the  other  wall,  if  your 
eyes  are  clear  and  strong,  you  can 
make  it  out  zig-zagging  up  out  of 
the  canyon  again.  You  camp  for 
the  night  weary  beside  the  trail, 
but  the  trail  runs  on  as  a  prophecy 
that  you  too  shall  follow  in  the 
morning.  Only  once  have  I  fol- 
lowed a  mountain  trail  to  its  end, 
and  that  was  when  we  climbed 
Mt.  Whitney.  There,  fourteen 
thousand  five  hundred  feet  above 
sea  level,  at  the  very  highest  point 
in  the  United  States,  the  trail 
seemed  to  end  at  a  rude  pile  of 
1301 


AND    ITS    MESSAGE 

stones.  But  do  you  know  I  be- 
lieve the  poet  saw  the  deeper  truth, 
and  I  too  believe  that  there  is  a 
trail  that  still  leads  on 

"Over  the  misty  mountains, 

Past  the  wide  heights  of  blue, 
Even  to  the  crystal  fountains, 

Where  all  the  dreams  come  true." 


[311 


"ONE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 
DAY  AND  NIGHT  REPEATED  — SO: 
•SOMETHING  HIDDEN  •  GO  AND 
FIND  IT  •  GO  AND  LOOK  BEHIND 
THE  RANGES  — SOMETHING  LOST 
BEHIND  THE  RANGES  •  LOST 
AND  WAITING  FOR  -YOU  -  GO!"' 


000  674  364     5 


OVER  THE  MISTY  MOUNTAINS, 
PAST  THE  WIDE  HEIGHTS  OF 
BLUE  .  EVEN  TO  THE  CRYSTAL 
FOUNTAINS  -WHERE  ALL 
THE  DREAMS  COME  TRUE" 


